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Thursday, 2 February 2012

Waiting rooms are dangerous places. Sure,
they might look innocuous enough but, over the many months I’ve surely spent
sitting in them, I have in fact discovered them to be pretty bloody dicey. I’d
even go so far as to say that they’re actually bad for your health – especially
so in hospitals where they’re every bit as perilous a place as a gorilla
enclosure at quarter-to feeding time. Don’t be fooled by the helpful leaflets
and the welcoming magazines and the muted television that’s seemingly always
showing The Jeremy Kyle Show (as if that’s not scary enough) – hospital waiting rooms
are treacherous, worrisome, harrowing places; the real-life equivalent of a
decrepit underground car park in a slasher movie, with buzzing lights casting
flickered shadows on rats scurrying through musty puddles, and a screechy
violin soundtrack playing over the footsteps of whichever unsuspecting idiot’s
chosen to park there.

Might that be a little dramatic? Well…
yeah, okay. But when you’ve spent as much time in waiting rooms as I have, you
can’t help but look at them with a naked knowing; a wary trepidation bolstered
by that smart-arsed voice inside your head that warns ‘don’t go in there!’

The problem with waiting rooms, see,
is that they’re a kind of parallel universe in which anything is possible, where everything
is a conspiracy, and in which you can cheerfully convince yourself that the
meaning behind even the simplest looking deed is altogether more sinister. In
any other space with chairs, for example, the act of two people with clipboards
in their hands casually walking into a side-room would be absolutely nothing of
note. See the same thing happen in a waiting room, however, and you’ve just
witnessed two consultants minutes away from having to impart bad news.

‘Poor them in there,’ I said
yesterday, nudging P as we’d just watched this happen.

‘I know,’ he said, immediately understanding.
‘It’s never gonna be good when there’s two
of them.’

Across the way, a woman was chewing
the rim of her spectacles, her eyes darting from the wall clock to each of the
patients called forward as she silently hypothesized about the outcome of her
own appointment, and what the significance might be to the fact that she got
here before the last three people who went in. Beside us, a specialist approached
a worried-looking couple, asking: ‘You did get that scan on Friday, right?’

‘Yeah,’ nodded the woman.

‘Thought so,’ said the specialist,
walking off.

The woman’s husband turned a shade
paler. ‘What does that mean?’ he
asked of his wife, each of them now attaching worrying weight to what, anywhere
else, would have seemed such an innocent question.

And then it was our turn.

‘Lisa, hi,’ said the registrar. We
grabbed our coats, preparing to be ushered into the side-room in which we’d
hear my MRI results. (But which
side-room? Is there a favoured room for bad news? Are the ones around the
corner where they take you if you’re most likely to cry? And what about the
special room on the end; the one with the cushions and the comfy chairs? What
if we were going in that room? Then
it really would be bad news… they
only save that room for the truly terminal consultations – and we should know,
we’ve been in there twice.) ‘I’m afraid we’re having some trouble locating some
of your scans,’ she said. ‘The other hospital don’t seem to have sent all the
images across, so we might be another half hour to an hour chasing them up –
I’m really sorry.’

I wasn’t in the least bit surprised
given that, the day before at said hospital, my MRI experience had descended
into the kind of painful farce that would make me far too angry to write about…
but even so, was the problem really
that my scans weren’t ready? Or was it instead something they’d seen on the
scan that they weren’t happy with? Maybe they wanted to get a second opinion before
telling me that we had a whole new problem to deal with? Or maybe – gasp – they
were waiting until two consultants
were free…?

‘Oh. Okay,’ I said.

‘Are you all right to hang around for
a bit?’

‘Sure. Sure, no problem.’

‘Or maybe, to save you waiting here, you
could nip out and get a coffee and I’ll give you a call when everything’s
ready?’

‘Okay, we’ll do that,’ I said,
suspiciously noting to myself what an unnecessarily kind offer that was. Clearly,
I surmised, something was up… and with more than just missing scans. But hey,
at least she hadn’t told us to nip out and get a tea, eh? For of course we all know that, in waiting room language, ‘get
yourself a cup of tea’ means you’ve got three weeks to live.

You don’t need to know about the loos
that were blocked in the meantime, nor the hot chocolate that barely filled
five dawdling minutes, nor the insane conspiracy theorising that went with it. You
don’t even need to know how we’d mentally scripted every possible phonecall
we’d soon be making, how my stomach felt as though it was slowly being eaten
away by ferrets with blunt cutlery and disgusting table manners, or how fast P
drove back to the hospital after we’d got the phonecall telling us to return.
What you do need to know is simply that this waiting time – this excruciating, insufferable,
torturous waiting time – is, daft as it may sound, worse even than hearing bad
news. Because bad news you can deal with; bad news you can do something about. No
news? No news is pure purgatory, and whoever said it was better than bad news is
a twatclacker of the highest order who deserves to be strung upside down by the
scrotum while holding out for life-or-death scan results in a waiting room
that’s running three and a half hours behind schedule.

On our way back into in the waiting
room, we caught sight of our favourite consultant. ‘I shan’t be long,’ she
mouthed to us, as she ushered another patient into a side-room.

‘Is that good?’ asked P.

‘I think it’s going to be okay,’ I
lied.

‘Lisa Lynch,’ announced a nurse, at
which we leapt straight out of the seats that had barely touched our arses.
‘Sorry about all the waiting today,’ she said, as we followed her into a room
around the corner. (A crying room?) ‘If you just grab a seat here, someone will
be along shortly.’

‘Someone?’ asked a concerned P. Did
‘someone’ mean someone other than our
favourite consultant? Or did it mean someone plus our favourite consultant?

‘I hope it’s just her. It really needs
to be just her. It’s got to be just
her.’ I repeated it like a mantra. ‘No, it really must be just… shit, I need the loo again,’ I huffed, carelessly slinging
my bag into P’s lap and storming out of the room.

By the time I came back (there was a
queue – ofcourse there was a queue), the door to our room was open and P was
in tears. Before there was even a split second to ask why, Favourite Consultant
was ushering me back into my seat with words that P cheerfully nicked right from
her mouth: ‘Everything’s okay!’

And that, in a nutshell, is why she’s
our favourite consultant. Not because she then revealed the news that my
disease hasn’t progressed; not because she told us that there’s no nerve damage
to my spine; not even because she grinned as she explained that not only has
the spread of my brain tumour halted, but that it even appears to be a bit smaller
than at last look (a teeeeny tiiiiiny bit, like, but still: smaller!). No, she’s our favourite
consultant because she completely understands not just The Bullshit, but the
bullshit that comes with The Bullshit – like the waiting and the nervousness
and the heartache. Which is why, when I saw my chance to block another loo, she
saw her chance to put a husband out of his misery, popping her head around the
door to say ‘don’t worry; it’s good news’.

I doubt they know how to teach that
kind of compassion in medical school; I guess it’s just something you’ve got or
you haven’t. But Favourite Consultant hasn’t just got it; she is it. At every stage of the grade-four process,
she’s been the one with all the shit stuff to deal with: telling us that the
first type of chemo wasn’t working; revealing the awful news of the brain
tumour; having to be the one who gave us the months-and-not-years talk. And given
that most of the occasions on which we’ve seen her have been miserable ones,
you might’ve expected us to have come away sticking pins in a Frightening
Consultant voodoo doll. Far from hating her guts, though, we’ve instead fallen
a bit in love with her (okay, a lot
in love with her), simply because she’s human; because she gets it; because she gets us.
The loo-break instance is example enough, but when you add to that the hugs she
gave us the first time my blood results revealed good things, the tears in her
eyes as she held our hands during that talk, the pre-new-year phonecall she made to tell us that my tumour-marker
levels had gone down, and the speed at which she’ll demand the return of test
results to save us from the waiting-horrors above… well, you’d fall in love
with her too.

And so, as we left the hospital with
relieved tears freezing on our cheeks, we felt as chuffed for Favourite
Consultant as we were for ourselves. What’s more, we knew she’d appreciate –
and never judge us for – our joyously unconcealed celebration of what,
essentially, is a maintenance of the status quo. It’s odd rejoicing the fact
that nothing’s changed, but that, alas, is just another of The Bullshit’s
twisted rules: no news isn’t good
news… but, when you’re in these shoes, no change definitely is.

It’s not that what we heard yesterday
isn’t good news (because, by ’eck, it’s the best news since my nephew was born); it’s simply that our definition of good news has had to change. To the
uninitiated, then, good news might perhaps be the total disappearance of my
tumours. But, alas, that’s neither realistic nor possible. What is possible, however – if treatment does
its thing – is halting in its tracks the cancer that was spreading
uncontrollably, damaging whatever it could in the process. That damage is now done
– and can’t be undone. What can be done, though, is ripping out The Bullshit’s
engine and keeping it from doing any more damage for as long as we possibly
can. And since that’s exactly what’s
happened, there is thankfully only one conclusion to make. So no hidden meanings, secret
significances or sinister conspiracies here – just three little words that were
well worth the wait: treatment is working.

Been thinking about you all day yesterday. Truly glad that your treatment is working. It will make your next waiting room wait, less stressful. Your waiting room description is (as everything you write) ever so right. Take good care of yourself

Been thinking about you all day yesterday. Truly glad that your treatment is working. It will make your next waiting room wait, less stressful. Your waiting room description is (as everything you write) ever so right. Take good care of yourself

That is FANTASTIC news that treatment is working *whooohoooo* ... and goodness, that is exactly how I feel about waiting-rooms, too *hehe*

Some consultants are heaven-sent; I am so happy that you have a "real person" as a consultant, same as my angel-surgeon. No bullshit, just honest facts but delivered with such care ... amazing. Thank heavens for them!!

Wonderful news, that status quo thing. And they DO teach them compassion when dealing with bad news these days. Twenty something years ago, I had to sit while a tired junior doctor had to give me bad news about my small son. She was so ill-equipped that she told me she had some news to give me but it would be better if my husband was there and could he just pop back to the hospital (no, he was looking after our daughter) or, perhaps we could wait until the morning when the consultant could explain the options. Noooo - I couldn't imagine struggling through the night not knowing. Just one thought - if this is a status quo thing, will you be able to shake your head and demand "whatever you want"?? Sorry ;-)Mad x

Whew! What a relief. Though by taking so long to tell us, you put us through a mini-version of what you went through while waiting.I didn't know if I was going to have to be strong, or dissolve in happiness.Glad it was the latter.We need your writing for a long time yet..yes, and you are important too ;-)

I am so very very very very very very very very very very pleased to read this news... very pleased indeed. Thanks for bringing a ray of sunshine into what hasn't been the easiest few days.Hugs, hugs, and more hugs xx

Gotta stop reading you at work, but just couldn't wait any longer! Crying a ones desk is really no way to impress the boss's VIP guest.Any way enough of my whittering and a big woo hoo to/for you and P!Hugs and kisses and a little 'Oh jeah!' dance Rxxxxxx

Lisa, this is fanTAStic news! I could relate to all of it-probably the only difference is that I'm generally alone for my appointments:but then most of the time that's my choice. I know exactly about the waiting, the last minute "results changes" ( happened to me a couple of times: one starts to become ultra cynical of the public hospital system). And the conspiracy theories! Sitting alone in the waiting room causes all sorts of (usually inaccurate) scenarios. Well done you that your disease has gone just that little bit! Keep going! I actually draw strength from your blogs, for which I am grateful xxxxxx

Man I know how that feels!, the room to the left is our 'bad news room' which is why at my last visit I nearly sh*T a brick when I was called in to the 'Left Room'.The news was not bad so they must have been telling the truth that 'they had no other available rooms that day.I have also derived meaning from various looks, whispers, clicking of heels, and cheery smiles of my consultants in and out of rooms. Also once by my registrar getting a drink of water.Oh yes I know that feeling!:0

Lisa, I think about you an awful lot. I expect you hear people tell you all the time how, quite simply, you are amazing. It goes without saying really.

When my Gabriel was ill, writing was my therapy. What you are doing (through something that no doubt is also a form of therapy to you too), is giving your little nephew Cory, (who has no idea yet how amazing you are), an opportunity to know and understand the woman you are, when he is a grown up man.

I often thought about how one day, my baby daughter would read my blog about her elder brother's illness, and understand how much I loved her too, and understand the woman that I was at the time - the mother of a terribly ill little boy.

Today, Gabriel is doing well. We have a scan at the end of the month and a meeting with his brain surgeoen the same afternoon. Your description of the waiting room is so familiar. I have been that person with a team of consultants telling me we were without hope, that treatment was futile, and Gabriel would not see Christmas 2008. He did, and today he is at school, well and happy.

I was kind of apprehensive about reading your blog and had been putting it off (how stupid! I'm not the one who was waiting for these results) and am soooo glad to read this. Am so relieved for you, P and everyone near & dear to you. All the best.

I'm glad its not just the waiting room at my Hospital that's always got Jeremy Kyle on the telly. I seriously considered going to one of his book signings not long after I'd finished chemo and saying "This is for all the poor cancer patients who have to watch you every day in the waiting room!!!" while kicking him in the nuts repeatedly :P

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Welcome to the website of me, Lisa Lynch: author, editor, blogger, wife, Ram, telly-addict, doofus, cancer bitch (but not, I hasten to add, cancer's bitch). The latter of those things is what initially got me blogging, swearing my way through The Bullshit following a pesky breast-cancer diagnosis at 28. Some three years down the line – with newly grown hair, a newly published book and a newly perky rack – I dared to assume that I'd seen the worst… only for the c-word to crop up once more: this time in my bones and brain, and this time incurable.

And so, from being a blog intended to chart my evolution from 'the girl who has cancer' to merely 'the girl', it seems we're back to the former. (If, indeed, it's still acceptable to even call yourself a girl in your thirties. Which, let's be honest, it probably isn't.) But before you write this off as Just Another Moany Health Blog, stick with me. Because cancer or no cancer, curable or incurable… I'll still tell it the way I see it. The universe might be in control of what’s going on in my body, but I'm in control of what’s going on in my blog. Which is why I hope you'll continue to join me as I write my way through my experiences. You see, this isn't a story about some poor, unlucky lass being taken down by cancer; it's simply a story about the extraordinary life of an ordinary girl woman.

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